


Patience

by sophiagratia



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiagratia/pseuds/sophiagratia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just simple scenes from a simple love affair between two ladies in space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for [asteriski](http://asteriski.livejournal.com/), who asked for "Kira/Dax: patience, late, whisper".

**Patience** (1)

Kira Nerys can wait. That, she thinks, easing her boots over her ankles, sighing out of her uniform, is a little-known fact. That she can wait. She’s known for impatience, for shooting first and asking questions later. Her comrades in the resistance should have known, and her colleagues on Deep Space Nine should know: there is a particular kind of patience required of both insurgent and soldier, and you don’t survive without it.

She wraps a robe around herself, shivering against the silk.

She paces her quarters, pausing at the window with each lap, waiting and thinking about waiting. She’s waited in dark hills at night, fingers frozen around the grip of a rifle. She’s bided her time with enemy contacts, let long months yield intelligence in its own time. She’s bided her time with vedeks and ministers and Federation officers and she’ll keep doing all that, because she knows how to wait.

And next to all that, waiting for a lover should be the easiest thing in the world.

 **Patience** (2)

Three hundred years will teach you nothing if not patience. Age and patience go together, necessarily. Dax, being an old creature, is also a patient one.

Jadzia, however, is not. Now, for example. She is drumming her fingers on a console screen, waiting for the station’s computer to run a diagnostic scan on some goo that someone dragged back from Gamma on a runabout nacelle. It’s past twenty-two hundred, Nerys is waiting for her, and she’s locked in her lab, waiting for goo to tell her what kind of goo it is.

Jadzia has no patience for this goo, no patience for this hour, no patience for patience. But here she is. So she passes the time by dreaming ahead. On the screen in front of her, she catalogues the attributes of goo. In her mind, she’s cataloguing kisses, sighs, and every milimeter of Nerys’s skin.

 **Whisper** (1)

Jadzia’s fingers were drumming on a screen this morning, too.

‘Come on, come on, come _on_ ,’ she growled at her insubordinate console in Ops. Nerys, morning-bright, raktajino in one hand, stack of PADDs in the other, strode by on her way to Benjamin’s office, and paused, pivoting with a calculatedly casual grin.

‘Anything I can help you with, Lieutenant?’ Jadzia cut off the exasperated, expletive-laced screed against Cardassian technology that tempted her. Instead, she cocked her head and gave a calculated third of a wry smile.

‘Well, if you’re offering...’ She arched an eyebrow, and she thought the Major’s cool quavered for a moment.

But Nerys only leaned in, feigning disinterested review of the data on Jadzia’s screen.

‘ _Well_ ,’ she whispered against Jadzia’s ear, and paused, letting her voice and her breath and just the presence of her shoot a thrill down Jadzia’s spine. ‘Patience, Lieutenant. Patience.’ And with another grin she was gone.

All day long, and now all night, she’s been dreaming ahead. Every milimeter of Nerys’s skin. There isn’t patience enough in the world, for this.

 **Late** (1)

As it turns out, waiting for a lover is just about the hardest damned thing in the universe, and Kira Nerys has had pretty well enough of it.

She’s standing still, now, leaning against the windowframe, having given up on pacing. Her reflection, spotted with stars, shows her expression calm, but her eyes feel taut. She’s late. She’s late. Nerys talks herself down from ‘She’s not coming’ and ‘What if [this or that or any of a million things]’ but she can’t quite get rid of ‘How _dare_ she.’

It’s probably only been five minutes, really, but with ‘She’s not coming’ and ‘What if’ resurfacing over and over, it gets to be too much, and between the worry and the waiting are the images of last night, and the night before, and the first night. One two three nights, just three, and already such a vast store of images. She thinks ‘images’ but they’re not visual; they’re in her skin. The impress of Jadzia’s fingertips, symmetrical five-point splays on each of her hips; the invisible mark of Jadzia’s lips on her throat, her belly, her breasts. The electrical charge of Jadzia’s tongue on – but what if? And maybe she won’t come, and that will be the last of these nerve-stored, skin-borne images and she’ll be left with only these and nothing more.

But her door sighs open at last. She doesn’t start at the sudden noise and doesn’t turn around. She hears apology in Jadzia’s soft steps before she sees it reflected in the glass, or feels it in the cool hand on her shoulder and the warm kiss at the base of her neck. Still, she doesn’t turn, because – well, _really_ , she’s allowed to affect anger if she wants, if her lover is late and she wants her to know that waiting was awful.

‘I’m so sorry, Nerys,’ and her voice sounds exhausted, and her arms slide around her, hold her tight just beneath her breasts and she can’t help sighing into them, just a little. She gives up on being angry.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she confesses, and she doesn’t mind the undisguised relief in her own voice. She feels Jadzia’s grin against her shoulder, and then the grin is a kiss, and then a grin again.

‘And _I_ thought we were supposed to be patient,’ she teases, kissing again. And again. With each press of her lips, a new imprint for Nerys to cherish, and she wants more, she wants all of it, everything, _now_.

‘I don’t have time for patience,’ she says and smiles, and she gives a little, letting Jadzia take some of her weight, and she feels light, and held, and utterly impatient, and she takes Jadzia’s hand and guides it down the silk of her robe to cup her cunt and now she does sigh, fully, arching back against her lover.

 **Whisper** (2)

Sweat-slick and breathing hard, Jadzia pauses to lay her cheek against the cool of Nerys’s thigh. She’s trembling, Nerys is, and her fingers in Jadzia’s hair are quick and needful.

She presses her lips to her lover’s skin, and her lover sighs, and she loves that: her lover, her lover. A kiss again, and fingers gentler in her hair. How quiet she is – that’s still a surprise, that Kira Nerys is so quiet in her lovemaking, quiet but extreme, quiet but taut as a bowstring and immediate, _present_ like no other lover Jadzia has known.

‘Jadzia,’ softly, but taut as a bowstring. Recalling her catalogue, Jadzia kisses – and kisses, and kisses – inner thigh and crook of hip and sharp pelvic arch and belly and ribs (onetwothreefourfive) and the clean salt-tasting undercurve of one small, perfect breast, and Nerys is trembling again and quietly, but with that extreme, immediate strength, she wraps her legs around Jadzia’s hips. ‘Jadzia, Jadzia,’ low, and melodic, a bowstring not for an archer but for a violist. Jadzia’s lips close around her nipple, and her tongue circles, and her hips rock, and _there_ – one fist hits the bed hard to grip the sheets and the other tightens in her hair and Nerys gets just that much louder, arching her neck and asking for more.

Jadzia pauses. She lifts her head with a sleepy smile to meet her lover’s eyes, with their fire and their wanting. Nerys grips her hips with her thighs and pulls her up, wrapping her arms around her neck and kissing her, fiercely, one hand slapping against her lower back, pulling her down, tight, and her hips rock and she moans – quiet but so strong and so damned beautiful – into Jadzia’s lips. Jadzia pulls away.

Gently, she cups a hand behind Nerys’s head, and gently, kisses along the line of her cheekbone, and gently, her fingertips trip down shoulder and torso and across rocking hip and gently, just gently, just barely touching at all, she grazes the top of a tight thicket of curls. And Nerys whimpers, at last, and then again, louder, and Jadzia hums to the thrill of fingernails along her spine.

And she grins against her lover’s throat, and she whispers. ‘Patience, Nerys. Patience.’

 **Late** (2)

‘Major Kira, the time is now oh-five-hundred hours.’

The habit that lives in her spine has her sprung halfway upright before the weight of an arm across her hips stops her, and she falls laughing to the bed. She rolls into Jadzia and laughs again, because only this woman, only her lover, only Jadzia, her lover, only this woman, could smile a wry complaint in her sleep. The arm tightens around her, and Jadzia mumurs contentment. Nerys brushes a fall of hair (smelling of her, and she smiles) from her lover’s cheek and strokes her thumb along the trail of spots from temple to jaw, and they look so sweet while she sleeps like this, and, oh, to hell with it. She kisses Jadzia’s forehead and rolls over, pulling her lover’s arm around her like a blanket and wriggling until she’s as close as she can possibly be. Jadzia murmurs again and plants her nose against Nerys’s neck.

They’ll be late. Nerys doesn’t think she’s ever been late for a shift, but she will be today. They’ll walk into Ops together, and the same smirk will show on several successive faces, and then the Lieutenant will crack a joke and the Major will growl and it won’t matter. This one morning, this one, perfect morning, two senior officers with flawless records will just simply be late.


End file.
